Before we could explain, another blast erupted, shaking the foundations of the entire street. A fireball the size of a house shot into the sky, taking half of Plumtree’s with it and sending a shower of timber and bricks and glass into the street. Pandemonium ensued. A shattered piece of brick hit J. J. in the hand, breaking a finger, but that was the worst of the injuries. Neighbouring businesses emptied as spectators surged into the streets, heedless of their own safety in their eagerness to gawk at the spectacle.
“Back, all of you,” Mornaday ordered. “I am an officer of the Metropolitan Police, and I am in charge here.”
He began giving instructions, calling up the fire brigade and more officers and securing the street against further damage. He looked every inch in command, and as he took charge, I tore one of Stoker’s scarlet handkerchiefs into strips to set J. J.’s finger whilst Stoker administered sal volatile to Wilfred to clear his head.
“That’s a good lad, don’t move too quickly,” he counselled.
Wilfred blinked furiously, and when he spoke his voice was as hoarse and rasping as the rest of ours. “Is it finished?” His spectacles, missing both lenses, dangled from one ear.
“It is,” I told him. “But I am afraid Plumtree’s is rather destroyed.”
He looked past me to the smouldering remains of his family business, and a wide smile cracked the sooty mask of his face.
“Most excellent,” he said. “Most excellent indeed!”
The arrival of the fire brigade introduced a new element of chaos to the pandemonium, but that was nothing compared to the appearance on the scene of Inspector Abbington. A pair of uniformed bobbies opened a path for him, pushing and shoving until the inspector was stood squarely in front of Mornaday. We could not hear what was said, but it was clear the inspector was shouting. A vein stood out on his brow and he shoved his finger into Mornaday’s face, wagging it imperiously as poor Mornaday attempted to explain. Whatever he said got short shrift as the inspector blazed him to silence, stepping so near their noses were almost touching as he continued to rant.
“I promised to help,” Stoker said resignedly.
I touched his sleeve. “Mornaday is capable of looking after himself. He is the proverbial cat with nine lives.”
“Although probably on the bloody last one,” Stoker replied.
“Very possibly,” I said. “We will have a word with Sir Hugo upon his return if Mornaday is still in Abbington’s black books. Until then, home.”
Docile as a dog, young Plumtree limped to the corner with the aid of Stoker’s arm. I supported his other side, and J. J. trailed behind, already scribbling in her notebook with her good hand.
At the end of the street, I turned back to watch the conflagration for a moment and contemplate the capricious nature of Fate. The Elyots had once eluded justice by such an inferno, but now another fire had settled the score. It seemed only fitting.
CHAPTER
30
It was a subdued and disreputable little band that made its way to Bishop’s Folly. Our ears were ringing, our clothes and faces stained with soot, and the stench of burning hung about us like a noxious cloud.
“J. J.,” I croaked. “Come and have a bath.” I made a vague gesture towards the Roman bathhouse, but she waved me off, her broken finger pointing awkwardly in the opposite direction of her palm.
“Can’t,” she said shortly. “This is my story, and I will have it on my editor’s desk by dawn.” Her face was pale under the soot, limned with pain, and Stoker put a gentle hand to her shoulder.
“At least let me set your finger properly,” he urged. “And you need tea, strong stuff with plenty of sugar and whisky.”
“That much I will agree to,” she allowed.
The next few hours passed in a slow, painful denouement of bathing, bandaging, and consuming pots of tea. Stoker unearthed a tin of shortbread, and we slathered it with a pot of raspberry jam. It was an indifferent jam, being the fruit of Lady Rose’s efforts in the stillroom and thick with pips, but it was ambrosial after the night we had endured, even if pieces of wax kept dropping into my teacup. J. J. ate withone hand, the other pecking away at the keys of the typewriting machine usually kept for the labelling of natural history specimens.
Wilfred watched her, dazed and happy, his brow wrapped in strips of linen. The bandage, coupled with the cuts from his broken spectacles, gave him a dashing air, and I saw that—like many men—he dared to entertain hopes where J. J. was concerned. He needn’t have bothered. She was entirely wedded to her career, but an unrequited passion would do the lad no harm. He needed something to strive for, some bright dream to take him out of himself and spur him on to great deeds. For some men it is the image of glory or riches, for others a pair of pretty eyes. If J. J. was the spark to his daring, he might well make a habit of adventuring before he realised the futility of his hopes. And by then it would not sting quite so sharply, for he would have many other strings to his bow, I had no doubt. In the meantime, he produced a packet of cheese and chutney sandwiches from his pocket—“Mamma says never to leave home without sustenance.” He unwrapped the sandwiches, sharing them with J. J. before offering one to me.
“Veronica needs attending to,” Stoker told him firmly. He put a hand under my arm, levering me gently to my feet. He guided my steps towards the Roman bathhouse where he proceeded to examine me thoroughly, removing the remaining bits of wax before bathing me and dressing my wounds.
“You are very good at this,” I told him as he gently probed the lump on my head.
“You will have a devil of a headache tomorrow,” he promised. “But you show no signs of concussion—frankly a miracle, for you ought to have been blown to bits.”
His voice broke on the last phrase, and he cleared his throat sharply. Dried blood had left a thread of crimson on his cheek, and I touched it with a fingertip. “You did not escape injury yourself. Would you like me to stitch it?”
He shook his head. “It is a scratch, nothing more. Besides,” he said, a fleeting smile touching his lips, “I thought you liked my scars.”
“I would rather have your scars than any other man’s perfection,” I replied.